Do I Know You
by strandedthought
Summary: A collection of first meetings. Written for FMA BIG BANG. In which Ed decided what to do after he retires, Wrath looks for a wife, Rebecca tries to find a decent man, Riza thinks she's propositioned, Olivier takes her new men for drinks, and more!
1. Messy Beginnings

Set post-manga

Ed stood at the edge of the road staring at the balcony of the yellow house, part of him hoping she would step out into the morning and call to him, demanding he get back inside before she beaned him with her wrench. The other part of him, the part that had planned this stealthy departure, was glad that even on her vacation she worked into the early hours and slept like a rock once her head hit the pillow.

Grumbling under his breath about how she'd wrench him when he got back, he turned away from the house and continued his walk to the train station.

.-.-.-.-.

Winry didn't know where to look first. The open air market offered vendors selling everything under the sun: jewelry, pipes(she'd have to get one for Granny), paintings, needlework, glass work, food, weapons, automail, books, clothing, ceramics, furniture, and then there were the buildings surrounding the market: teashops, healing houses, bath houses, rentanjutsu temples, the royal garden, the clan houses, the palace, and so much more, more than their trip would allow her to see.

A door closed, and as she turned to look to her right, she blinked.

Suddenly she was looking at her desk. She sighed. After being home a couple days, she was ready to begin her vacation. Part of her wanted her vacation, her first real vacation, to last longer than three weeks, but so many people would be waiting for her to return to Rush Valley.

Her eyes widened as she realized Ed's red coat was missing from where it had been hanging on the back of her desk chair.

Ed hadn't worn the coat since he'd brought Al back after the eclipse. When she'd asked, he'd claimed the Resembool summer was just too damn hot for a coat, and it wasn't like he had automail to cover anymore.

From what Al had told her, he never wore it anymore, but always took it with him when he traveled.

She wondered if it had become a second pocket watch, a reminder of past mistakes. As she threw back the blankets and ran into the hall calling his name, part of her hoped he was outside burning that coat and melting down his pocket watch, moving on.

He didn't answer.

She checked his room—he always complained she kicked him in her sleep, maybe he'd gone back to his room—but it was empty.

Thunder filled the yellow house as she stormed down the stairs, still calling for him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blond head poke out of the kitchen door and she skidded to a halt.

"Told you she'd be up soon" Al said as May joined him at the kitchen door.

"Alphonse was teaching me to make pancakes, There's even enough for Edward," May announced, the dried up batter splattered on her apron evidence of her attempt at cooking.

"Ed's here?" Winry asked, looking at Al.

Al's smile faded. "He wasn't in your room?"

She shook her head.

"He told me he'd have to go into town today. He must have left early."

"Just into town? He took his coat," Winry told him.

"That's what he told me," Al said through a frown. "Said he needed to pick up a few things before we leave," he elaborated.

She nodded. She needed a few things herself. "I should go get what I need, too," she mused.

"Why don't you eat first," Pinako said as she emerged from the staircase leading down to her workroom.

May nodded in agreement, an anxious smile on her face.

Winry's shoulders sagged as Pinako gave her a push towards the kitchen.

"No use going into town on an empty stomach, you're pockets will be lighter than you planned," Pinako reasoned as she followed her granddaughter to the kitchen table.

.-.-.-.-.

Winry sighed as she got another no to her inquiry about Ed. No one had seen him. Either the whole town was conspiring against her finding him, or he'd become invisible—a feat impossible for someone so full of himself.

"Are you finished, Winry?" Al asked as he joined her in the sweets shop.

"Why don't you go back ahead of me," she suggested.

Al's forehead wrinkles as his eyebrows knit together with worry. "We probably just missed him. He's probably sitting at home complaining about," he paused to look over his shoulder and continued when he saw they were alone aside from the shopkeeper, "May's cooking."

"I promised Nellie I'd visit before leaving," Winry explained—not a complete lie—she was supposed to meet with Nellie before she left, but before she left for Rush Valley, not Xing.

"Want me to take those for you?" Al offered, reaching for her bags.

Despite her concern for Ed, she couldn't help but grin at Al's offer. "No thanks, it looks like May could use your help, though," she suggested, pointing out the window to where May stood with her arms weighted down by bags, her little panda looking just as exhausted her.

Al groaned. "She didn't tell me she wanted to buy souvenirs for all of Xing. Don't be too late, I hear we're having stew," he called as he raced out of the shop.

Once Al had unburdened May of most of her bags and they disappeared from the view the shop window offered of the street, Winry left out of the door that lead to the next street over and headed to the train station.

.-.-.-.-.

"Can't you speed things up a bit?" Ed snapped.

"Still as demanding as ever, aren't we?" Roy asked through a smirk, purposely slowing down his writing.

"Being at the top gives him even more work to get done," Riza cut in as she added another folder to the pile on Roy's desk.

"Plus, I don't want to let go of one of my best alchemists so easily," Roy explained.

"You knew I was only doing this until I got things put back to normal," Ed hissed.

Roy laughed. He'd miss the shrimp if only for the entertainment his visits provided.

"Sir, what have I advised about instigating, provoking, and procrastinating?" Riza asked from her desk.

It was Ed's turn to smirk as Roy glared at him. Riza cleared her throat and Roy slid the paper across his desk.

"You have to sign and date there."

Ed swiped a pen from Roy's desk and skimmed over the retirement form to make sure Roy wasn't pulling one over on him.

"And we need one last signature if the general would be so kind as to help us out, then we can retire your title," Roy explained.

Before Ed could even turn around to look over at her desk, Riza was beside him. Once she added her signature next to Roy's, she smiled at him. "It's official, now," she said, grabbing the stamp from Roy's desk and marking the top of the paper with the Führer's seal.

Roy grumbled about her taking the fun out of his job and snatched the stamp back.

Ed got up to leave.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" Roy demanded.

"What's it to you, I'm a free man now."

"You still have to turn in your watch."

"What'dya mean? I thought only the alchemists who were fired had to turn them in?"

"Yeah, and the alchemists who owe me 520 cenz," he added.

"I paid that back."

"No, from the poker game. I won that fair and square."

Ed grumbled as he reached into his pockets.

.-.-.-.-.

Winry checked her suit case for what seemed like the hundredth time. Part of her wanted to sit on her balcony with a lantern lit for him, while the rest of her wanted to sit out there in the dark with a wrench at the ready.

"He'd better get back in time to make the train for Xing," she mumbled. He wasn't going to ruin her first vacation—she'd just go without him.

A knock shook her out of her thought. Al stood at the edge of her room, nervously running a hand through his hair. "He'll make it back in time," he reassured her, reading her mind.

"He has to pack, too," she reminded him.

"I already threw a few things together for him."

She nodded, of course Al had thought of that. "You should get some sleep before we leave, trains aren't very comfortable," she reminded him.

.-.-.-.-.

Ed pushed away the hand that was shaking him. "I'm up, I'm up. We there yet?" Ed asked, annoyed that, despite Al having gotten his body back, he could probably still sleep through a robbery.

"The Resembool station is the next stop," the ticket checker told him.

"Thanks." Ed stood up and stretched to wake himself up as the man walked away with a few extra cenz in his pocket.

.-.-.-.-.

"You want to get me killed?" Ed asked as Den continued barking at him.

She wagged her tail and barked again.

Ed sighed.

The door of the house opened and Ed froze up.

Pinako flipped on the porch light. "Quiet down and get inside," she huffed at the dog. "C'mon, you too," she added when Ed didn't move. "You should have told them you were going to Central," she chided as he joined her in the house.

"Wouldn't have been gone so long if that bastard hadn't taken his time," Ed mumbled in defense.

"Why'd he need you this time?"

"He didn't," he told her.

"Then why'd you go?" Winry demanded as she appeared at the top of the staircase.

Pinako chuckled. "I'll be going for my morning walk, I don't want to hear this row," she said more to herself than them.

Den looked between Ed and Winry then padded after Pinako.

"Then why'd you go?" Winry repeated, now at the bottom of the stairs.

He didn't answer, but pulled a box out of his pocket.

She shook her head. "No. Earrings aren't going to work this time," she told him as she walked away from him and to the kitchen.

Ed rolled his eyes and followed after her.

"Why don't you go make sure Al and May are up, we have to leave soon," she suggested, her tone telling him to obey or face dire consequences.

"No, I've got something to ask you first," he said firmly.

"Fine, I'll go make sure they're awake," she hissed and stomped past him back to the stairs.

"I'm going to kill Mustang for making this harder than it already is," he grumbled as he grabbed hold of her arm.

"Ed," she warned as she pulled away.

"I'm a civilian, now," he blurted out.

Winry stopped in her tracks. "What?" she asked, not quite sure she believed him.

"I took my resignation papers straight to Mustang, and it's official. No more license, no more getting called away for a mission, no more reports," he elaborated.

She turned around to look at him, her mouth gaping open in betrayal of her cool demeanor.

He smirked.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked, curiosity getting the best of her.

"Well, I did have something in mind, but it requires your cooperation," he told her as he took the velvet box out of his pocket again.

She gingerly accepted the box, watching him as she opened it.

"This one doesn't go on your ears, so don't go punching any more holes in them," he teased.

A lump formed in her throat as she stared at the ring. She was torn between wanting to tell him he shouldn't have worried her so much over it or that he could have been a bit more romantic about his proposal, but instead she asked, "Who picked it out?" It was so normal it couldn't have been a pick made solely by the taste of Edward Elric.

His smirk faded. "Is that all you can say?" he huffed.

"I think I can help you with this," she said matter-of-factly as she plucked the ring from its cushion.

He grinned at her, the weight of his proposal lifted from his shoulders. "I guess I'll go pack for the trip to Xing."

"Al already packed for you. Why don't you help me make breakfast and some sandwiches for on the way there," she suggested.

Ed nodded. "As long as it keeps May out of the kitchen," he commented. "I didn't know someone so good with formulas could make such a mess of cooking."

"And I didn't know a genius could make such a mess of proposing," she shot back.

A.N.: This collection was written for fma_big_bang over at livejournal. Thanks go to **Everystep** for her beta work! I hope you enjoy the collection.


	2. Melons

Set pre-manga

Despite his protests, the generals were still showering him with offers to set him up with sisters (some even daughters), claiming that the Führer should have someone to take care of the house and welcome him home at the end of the day.

Sometimes he wondered if they really knew what a homunculus was, to offer their loved ones to him so easily. But their eagerness to keep themselves firmly rooted in Father's plans amused him.

.-.-.-.-.

The room was dark, the only light an eerie glow emitting from the pipes hooked up to Father.

"We should start looking into Ishval at our next meeting," Father announced. "Anyone have anything else to report?" he asked, looking around the table to the homunculi embodying the emotions he'd cast off.

Wrath cleared his throat.

Father raised an eyebrow at his youngest creation.

"I think I should take a wife," Wrath suggested.

"I wondered if any part of your human desires would break through," Father mused.

Envy cackled. "You mean you don't get enough of hanging around those insects every day?"

"Or else he wants one to toy with. Humans' emotions are quite entertaining," Lust offered.

"Humans seem to trust a man with a family more than a single man," Wrath corrected.

Father nodded. "I once knew a human who told me family was important to them, made them happy. Well thought out Wrath. If you can find one who'll agree to it, go ahead, but don't get attached," he cautioned. Father's gaze left Wrath and settled on Pride. "Maybe he can adopt you."

Pride glowered at Wrath.

.-.-.-.-.

Wrath chuckled to himself as he walked through the street market of Western. He was sure his bodyguards were going mad trying to find him. Pretty soon he'd have to leave his polka dot shirts behind for something else to disguise himself with when he ventured out of their watch, maybe one those hideous flowered shirts he saw tourists wearing. He pulled the brim of his straw hat lower as someone gave his eye patch a sideways look.

He sidestepped as someone rushed past him, and that was when he spotted them. His mouth watered at the sight of the striped melons tucked under a woman's arms. Just a minute ago, he wouldn't have ever admitted to being hungry.

He swerved to the left to avoid getting caught on the head by a bag of oranges a passer-by was swinging around, but he'd failed to notice the woman trying to pass him on his right.

As soon as her foot caught on his leg, he threw his arm out to stop her fall.

Before he even realized he was groping her, she slapped him, losing one of her watermelons in the process.

He stepped back.

She followed. "You…you…you lecherous cad!" she hissed.

Her eyes went wide as she was grabbed from behind and she lost her hold on the other watermelon.

"Apologize to the Führer," a voice ordered into her ear.

Wrath clenched his jaw. "Major Fuller, release her. It was a misunderstanding, and my fault."

The sweet scent of watermelon wafted through the air as she glared at Fuller and refused to meet Wrath's eye.

"Let me replace those for you," he offered when her eyes turned to the broken melons.

"They were the last two," she told him, looking down at the mess regretfully. "Thank you, though. I'll, I'll just be on my way," she stammered.

Wrath watched her as she left. She was certainly an interesting woman.

"Are you all right, Sir?" Fuller asked.

"Aside from the fact that you found me, wonderful, Major," he said and continued on his way through the market. "I might be able to overlook the way you treated that woman if you can find out her name and address for me."

.-.-.-.-.

She stared at the note tucked in her mailbox with contempt. That man was persistent. She vaguely wondered how he'd gotten her address, but then again, he was the Führer. She avoided the carefully folded note while she picked out the rest of her mail. Maybe, if she kept ignoring him, the notes would stop.

.-.-.-.-.

"I hear a woman got the best of you," Lust teased.

Wrath shrugged.

She frowned. Teasing wasn't any fun if he didn't get riled up.

"Any luck with the hunt?" Pride asked. Father's remark about adoption from their last meeting still haunted him. He'd have to act like a child. Let all those humans condescend to him. He repressed a shiver at the thought of that torture.

"You know women," Wrath said as he looked at Lust.

"What of it?"

"How do I woo her?" he asked. So far she hadn't sent a response to any of his invitations.

"Compliment her," Lust suggested.

"Chocolates," Glutton chimed in.

.-.-.-.-.

With her mailbox full of those notes, she finally gave in and took them inside. Just seconds away from dumping them in the trash, she decided it would be best to put an end to the Führer's interest in her before her parents returned from their vacation.

Sorting the notes by date, she was surprised to find he was in town for the week. She found a blank sheet of paper in her father's study and wrote out her agreement to meet him for dinner.

.-.-.-.-.

The restaurant was empty save for him, the staff, and his body guards. From where he sat, he couldn't see outside, but he found himself turning around in his chair to peer out the windows every few minutes.

After what felt like an eternity (he'd never been made to wait before), a waiter hurried to the door and let her in. Her pink and purple gown shimmered in the candlelight of the restaurant.

He smiled and rose from his seat as she neared the table.

A busboy ran out from the kitchen and pulled out her chair. He flashed a toothy grin at Wrath, his eyes going purple for a moment.

Wrath frowned at the busboy—he hadn't known Envy was in Western.

.-.-.-.-.

"So, you were in disguise that day?" she asked.

He nodded.

"You shouldn't go off on your own, what if something happens?" she scolded.

He laughed. No one had worried about him like that in ages. Probably not since before he'd been scooped up for training as a boy.

"It's really not a laughing matter," she huffed.

"Sometimes I need to see what's going on in the country when people don't know I'm around," he explained.

"Then your retinue of guards can put themselves in disguise, too," she suggested.

He opened his mouth and then snapped it shut when no counter argument jumped to mind.

She gave him a triumphant grin and took a sip of champagne.

"You know, if you put as much time and effort into persuading Aerugo, Creta, and Drachma to stop these perpetual border skirmishes we're always having as you did when trying to persuade me to join you for dinner, our country would be a bit more tranquil," she criticized, opening her purse and pulling out a handful of notes he'd sent her.

"But I couldn't get you and your melons off my mind."

"Me and my melons?" she asked, her cheeks puffed up.

"Yes, you and your beautiful—"

_SMACK _

He blinked.

She was already across the restaurant when he finished his sentence. "—watermelons."

She turned around to look at him as she pulled the door open. "And stop sending me notes," she demanded.

His eyes followed her as she stormed down the street.

Someone was chuckling.

"Wait until I tell Lust," Envy squealed through his laughter as he transformed back into his usual appearance.

Wrath ignored him.

"Major Fuller, go out and have a dozen flowers sent to her, something that means hope—no note."


	3. A Decent Man

Set between chapters 83 and 88(with spoilers)

As the bell chimed informing him of a customer, Havoc looked up from the book in his hand and saw a familiar woman sauntering around the store. By the way her dark eyes roamed deliberately across the shelves, he knew she already had what she wanted in mind. She wasn't there to look around.

He dog-eared the page he was on, setting the book on the counter as he wheeled around it to meet her.

At the sound of his wheelchair gliding across the hardwood floor, she frowned at him.

"I thought Havoc Sundries had everything," she complained, folding her arms under her breast, drawing even more attention to the area than the shirt pulled taught across them did.

"Everything but you," he replied, trying to be suave.

She laughed. "And why would I be looking for another me?" she asked. Her eyebrow rose in question and she tapped her booted foot impatiently. It had been a long day, and she already had to put up with Grumman's winks and mentions of how it'd be shame to mankind if she ever stopped whatever workout was keeping her butt in such great condition. To top it all off, he was the one who sent her to the shop in the first place, ensuring her she'd find who she'd talked to Riza about in the sundries shop, and she knew Grumman well enough to know that there was more to her pit stop on the way home than finding a good man.

"I suppose you wouldn't. What were you looking for, Ma'am?" he inquired, drawing out the nicety to irritate her.

She huffed indignantly.

He smirked.

"A good man, with plenty of money to spoil me," she paused for a moment and brought her hand to her chin while she sized him up, "Obviously you don't have any of those in stock," she hissed.

"No, because we only have men looking for women who'll be good to them," he shot back.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but refused to take his bait.

"Well," she drew out the word as she made a show of glancing around the shelves again, "since you can't give me what I want, I think you owe me one," she declared.

"Oh, I do, do I?"

"That's right."

"That's not really how we work here," he told her, rolling back and forth in his wheelchair.

"Really?" she asked, quirking her brow again as she tapped her chin. "I do recall haggling here, before."

He sighed. "My mother's always had a soft spot when it came to dealing with military women, but she's not here right now."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Well?"

He ran a hand through his hair, lost in thought.

"You know, I could help you out if you wanted to bat for the other team," he suggested, smirking at her pursed lips.

She tilted her head to the side for a moment, considering his offer; sure he knew exactly why she was there in the first place. "Well, it couldn't be anyone from around here. I wouldn't want the word spreading. I do like men after all, but maybe I could try…" she trailed off.

"I always knew you were adventurous," he murmured.

"Adventurous, is that the word? I thought people called it curious," she corrected.

He nodded in agreement. "I guess you could call it curious, but curious isn't what she's looking for," he explained, rolling himself back behind the counter.

She followed him to the counter, leaning her elbow against it as she watched him fish around for something in a cubby hole. "Why, because curiosity killed the cat?"

He laughed, but didn't answer.

She looked along the closest shelves, uncertain what his silence meant.

While he continued digging, she held out her hand and inspected her nails. She'd given up hope on ever making them look decent unless she was on leave. It was either chip one while running drills or during target practice. Not that they were really worth keeping long in the end, not with gunpowder caking under them, or even dirt if she was on assignment.

Havoc slammed his hand down on the counter, a rumpled, well used looking piece of paper poking out from under his fingers.

She reached for it.

He slid his hand back.

"You know, she's looking for adventure, maybe a reason to return," he cautioned.

"I thought I said I wouldn't want people talking," she reminded him.

"Well, I'd pass her number along to Hawkeye, but it seems someone's already got their eyes on her. She'd give her what she wants," he said matter-of-factly.

Rebecca glared at him. Since when was Riza more adventurous than her? Now she had to follow through, prove herself.

"Give it," she ordered, her palm open and ready for him to follow her command.

"Not quite yet, I need to make sure you two get along. I promised. Not to mention I'm still the only one she'll talk to," he explained when she growled at him. He motioned for her to join him behind the counter. Just as he rounded the counter, he turned his wheelchair around and disappeared into the back room. She followed.

Light from the backdoor silhouetted him as he called for someone outside.

A boy pushed by Havoc and into the backroom. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Watch the counter for a few minutes. I need to call in an order," Havoc told him.

"Same payment as usual?" he asked.

Havoc nodded, and the young man quickly made his way from the back room to the shop.

"Close the other door," Havoc ordered as he pulled the back door shut.

Rebecca pushed the door shut separating the shop and stock room. The room went dark around her. She followed the soft whir of the rotary dial to where he sat, cursing under her breath as she caught her leg on something and nearly fell.

Chuckling, he flicked open his lighter and brought the flame to a candle.

"Ha ha," she laughed unenthusiastically, shooting him a glare as she doubled over to rub her throbbing shin.

"Hello, I'm calling for Miss Ross. Mhm, Jean Havoc. I'll wait."

Rebecca's eyes narrowed. Ross, she'd heard that name before. She straightened and spotted a chair at the desk. Without a word, she plopped herself in it while she wracked her brain for the name.

"Xing still treating you well?" Havoc asked.

Rebecca was brought back from her thoughts as he laughed.

"Yeah, well I'll stop if they can find some way to get me out of this chair. How's that sound?" he bargained into the receiver, a grin on his face.

"Yeah, I've got a curious one here with me."

Rebecca's eyes widened as Havoc suddenly thrust the receiver in her direction.

"Uhm, hello?"

"Rebecca Catalina?" a voice asked.

"Miss Ross?"

The voice laughed. "Call me Maria."

Rebecca nearly dropped the receiver as the name slid home. Maria Ross, dead by Mustang's…

Havoc gave a smug, amused smile at her reaction. Oh how he wished he had a camera with him to capture the way her lips formed a perfect "o" as the pieces fell in place.

Now she was nodding to the phone and Havoc knew Maria was recounting her escape to the sniper.

"Happy Bear Ice Cream? Yeah, I like it. Mhm, I've seen the trucks before. I think I could get leave, go on a trip," Rebecca stammered.

"Then it's all set," Havoc said as he reached for the phone.

Rebecca pulled away, but a click sounded in her ear and then the dial tone beeped. She frowned at the receiver a moment and then handed it back to Havoc.

"So, there's no turning back," he told her as he placed the receiver in its cradle.

She chuckled. "I think there was no turning back a long time ago," she scoffed as she recalled the first information gathering operation she'd done for Grumman. The filthy old codger. She really needed to find a decent man after this was all over.

Business taken care of, she stood.

"Payment?" Havoc demanded.

Her eye twitched. "Payment?" she echoed, an eyebrow rose in question as her foul mood started to return.

"Mhm, payment."

She nodded and leaned down so they were eye to eye, and then leaned forward. Her breath was on his cheek.

With a devious grin, she blew out the candle behind him and ruffled his hair.

"Put it on Mustang's tab," she whispered as she backed away.

She dashed for the backdoor as he grumbled about her being a tease.

She looked back as she pushed the door open, and found him nearly on her heels. With a cry of triumph she slammed the door closed and ran around to the front of the shop, where her taxi was supposed to have been waiting.

With an exasperated sigh, she made her way to the nearest pub. They'd have a phone and she could get a cold drink while she waited for the taxi, maybe even find a good man.


	4. Estranged

Set early manga, spoilers for Ishval arc

Despite the earmuffs made specifically to block the sound of gunfire that came from both sides of her, the sound still echoed in her ears. She didn't see why they had to wear them. It only left unseasoned soldiers unprepared for the noise of battle.

Even from her position as a sniper crouched in a lofty tower, she'd heard the racket of battle, of death, of massacre.

Her bullet tore through the shoulder of the paper target, not quite a deadly blow, but one that could maim and definitely disarm an adversary.

She lowered her arms and shook her head against the images of Ishval that flashed through her mind. Her back itched at the way her shirt moved across it and she clenched her teeth in irritation. She hadn't expected it to take so long to heal, and she was glad, not for the first time, that he hadn't burned her entire back.

A shadow fell across the wall of the booth and she turned around, clicking on the safety of her gun, and lowering the ear muffs until they rested around her neck.

The man in black saluted and she returned the salute after holstering the pistol.

"General Grumman has a matter he'd like to discuss with you, Lieutenant Hawkeye," the man reported.

"Thank you, you may go, I'll only be a moment," she dismissed him, still not used to having authority over others.

"Sorry, Lieutenant, but he wanted me to take you there as soon as I found you," he explained. "I've already signed you out of the shooting range."

She briefly wondered if she'd done something wrong in the whole week she'd been at Eastern, but disregarded the thought before it caused any worry. Nodding, she took her uniform jacket from the peg it hung on and replaced it with the ear muffs.

Pulling her jacket on, she followed him as he led her out of the indoor range. Irritation prickled in her mind at the itching sensation that exploded across her back as she slid her arms into the sleeves.

They passed by an office marked 'Colonel Mustang' and she stared at the door for a moment.

"This is an awful roundabout way," she remarked, quite sure they didn't have to pass by his office to get to Grumman's.

"I haven't been here long, used to be stationed in the west," he apologized.

She didn't quite believe him, but didn't mention her doubt. She hadn't expected to be so lucky after the war. She'd thought she would have had to put in more than one request to be stationed in the same place as him. That was until her orders had arrived a week before her leave ended. At first, she'd wondered if he'd pulled strings, but when she wasn't assigned to work under him she knew it had to be coincidence.

"Just right through that door, have a seat at the desk and he'll join you in a moment," a new voice said, bringing her out of her thoughts. The M.P. had already left her, and she found herself in the office that led to Grumman's. The only one to acknowledge her was the Captain who pointed to the door at the end of the office.

She nodded her thanks and made her way into Grumman's personal office.

Before she even got a few steps in, the door clicked shut behind her, and she turned expecting to find the General, but the room was still empty.

After a few moments, she sat down in one of the blue armchairs.

She would never admit it, but as the minutes ticked away she was growing a bit nervous.

Her eyes flitted from one odd knick-knack to the other: a small checkered case that sat at the corner of his desk, a picture frame adorned with painted pasta of all different shapes, the photo inside of a much younger version of the general she awaited with a little brunette girl in his arms, a fake purple parrot perched in a birdcage resting atop a book case, a little potted plant that, if she remembered correctly, was called a bonsai tree.

Footsteps sounded in the other room as a shadow fell across the grey carpet and she twisted around in her chair, but the shadow left by the blue shape moved past the beveled glass window and the footsteps faded—just and officer walking across the office.

She sighed. If he was going to take so long, why had he left a M.P. in charge of making sure she followed the summons with the utmost urgency? She rubbed her hands on her blue uniform pants—her hands were still caked with gunpowder and the mingled scents of burnt paper and sulfur radiated from them.

The lingering scent still reminded her of those dark faces she'd seen through the scope of her rifle, dark faces that didn't even get the courtesy of seeing their reaper.

She rubbed her hands on the woolen pants again, over and over until the flesh of her palms was an irritated pink.

The door creaked open and she jumped up from her seat to attention. "Ah, so you were at the range," Grumman remarked as he walked around his desk to the vacant chair.

"Yes, Sir," she replied as she saluted.

He returned the salute as he lowered himself into his chair. "At ease."

She relaxed her posture and clasped her hands behind her back.

Grinning, Grumman waved her down. "Have a seat, will you," he ordered more than requested, and she did so.

He pulled a beige folder from a drawer and unceremoniously dropped it on his desk.

She watched in silence while he thumbed through the folder's contents. As he closed the folder, she caught a glimpse of the photograph they'd taken of her before she'd been sent to Ishval.

"You requested to be a part of Colonel Mustang's team upon arriving here," he observed.

She nodded.

He waved a hand, prompting her to elaborate.

"He's a capable, intelligent, hard-working, fair man, and he doesn't hold a bias against women—"

"Should I be looking into the work ethics of the rest of my subordinates?"

"No, Sir, that's not what I meant," she answered hastily.

"Oh? Would you care to clarify for me?" he asked as he rested his elbows on his desk and propped his chin on his hands.

"I worked with him during the war."

"Ah, that's right, the Hero of Ishval was watched over by the Hawk's Eye," he interrupted her.

"Just a play on my name, Sir."

"But a fitting one," he mused as he watched her eyes darken with the mention of her part in the war. He didn't like getting information in such a roundabout way, but his chances of learning about the girl before now had been robbed of him all those years ago when Berthold had neglected to mention her existence, and he needed to test the water first, remind her of her choices before he went on. "Would you prefer granddaughter?"

Her amber eyes flashed with disgust and her hand twitched towards the guns hidden beneath the blue jacket in their holsters, but she pulled at the bottom of her jacket to straighten it. The movement of the heavy wool relieved the persistent itch on her shoulder for a moment.

"With all due respect, Sir, I'm not the type to play those games," she hissed.

Grumman threw his head back and laughed at her assumption.

She raised an eyebrow at his mirth.

Light glinted off his round glasses as he shook his head and got control over his laughter, and if not for that control he was sure he would have collapsed at the way her eyes tracked his movements as he walked around to the front of his desk and picked up the little travel sized chess set sitting the corner of the desk closest to her.

She had to make a conscious effort not to tighten her grip on the arms of the chair as he sat on the now vacant corner of his desk.

Ignoring her, he fumbled around inside the box, the ceramic pieces clinking when they met, and extracted a small stack of little slips of paper and envelopes.

With his prize in hand, the smile left his eyes. After a quick glance at the topmost slip, he offered them to her.

She eyed him and hesitantly reached out to take the papers.

Her eyes went wide with disbelief as soon as she could make out the age-darkened photo that sat on top of the pile.

This was the first time she'd ever seen anyone aside from her father in a photo with her mother. The man who stood behind her mother and father with a broad grin on his face and arms stretched out around their shoulders was clearly the General, not quite as young as in the photo on his desk, but nowhere near as grey as the man sitting before her.

"Grandfather," she whispered, as if testing the word in her mouth and the stiff tension in the office melted away.

His lips curved upwards in a smile which rivaled the one in the photo. He looked from her to the rest of the papers in her hand.

She shuffled through them: a marriage registration form all filled out save for signatures, a photo of her mother in a white gown and her belly swollen with life –

Riza looked away from the photo to Grumman and found his smile had unexpectedly transformed into a frown.

Shuffling the photo to the back of the pile, her eyes swept over a death certificate for Grumman, Baby Boy, hospital discharge papers filled out in her father's rushed hand, envelopes marked return to sender, and a newspaper clipping announcing her mother's death at 32.

When she raised her gaze to him, Grumman's eyes were glassy with sorrow.

He sucked in a ragged breath and busied himself with cleaning his glasses as he spoke. "Berthold Hawkeye seemed like a good enough man—he loved Elizabeth, and she loved him.

"She was barely six months along on they day they were supposed to have the wedding ceremony, but something happened…I've never seen so much blood outside of battle…" His breath caught, the emotion from that long-since-passed moment gathering and tightening his throat.

A quite sigh escaped her lips. She'd never known.

"She asked me to get her some clothes so she could get out of the hospital gowns, and they were gone when I returned. All they left behind was the death certificate and a simple note saying that the only way she could recover was to go somewhere she wouldn't be reminded of what she'd lost."

"And you left them alone?"

"No, what father would?" he snapped, forgetting for a moment that he had left it open to question with his pause. "Every time I caught up to them, they uprooted again. It was the fifth time I found myself knocking on a new door that it all stopped. She'd been the one to get the door, and her amber eyes filled with so much pain that I was immobilized. She pleaded with me to leave her alone, to stop making her remember, and seeing the tears spill down her cheeks convinced me to. She'd looked so happy when she'd first opened that door…"

Setting the stack of mementos on his desk, she found herself studying the carpet. He was describing a side of her mother she'd never seen. Part of her didn't want to believe him—her mother had been strong.

"I didn't find myself back at that door until ten years later when the newspaper with her obituary found its way into my mailbox. He was such a coward, couldn't even bring himself to make a phone call to let me know.

"It was pure chance that I arrived on the day of her funeral."

Riza shook her head, she didn't remember seeing him there, but then again, her father had sent her away with a neighbor because he couldn't handle her sobbing.

"He didn't tell me about you. I didn't know until I started to hear news of the ace sniper the academy was sending to the warfront early because of her skill. Once I got confirmation of your name being Hawkeye, I did some digging around."

She looked up at him. "You're the reason I was stationed here?" she stated more than asked as the pieces fell together.

He nodded. "I needed to see you…you look so much like her," he told her.

"Father said that, too," she replied repressing a tremor at the anger and hurt that always haunted her father's eyes when he told her.

Grumman leaned forward. "You don't have to stay in the military," he began, his eyes searching hers as he went on, "I can support you until you find another job," he offered.

She frowned up at her grandfather. "I can't do that, Sir," she told him, her voice hard.

"Well then, Lieutenant," he started, the formalities back in place, "I suppose have one more matter that needs your attention."

Her mouth opened and closed, trying to work out an apology, a thank you for his offer, but his back was to her and he was digging through her file.

When he turned back around, a small envelope with the dragon seal on it was clamped between his fingers.

He offered it to her, but didn't let go when she grasped it. "I'm glad to have a granddaughter who is so confident in her decisions. Though, it might not work out for the best if our relation is discovered," he cautioned. "Now, on to the official reason for our meeting." He glanced down at the cream colored envelope. "Mustang is expecting the newest addition to his team before the hour is over." He released the envelope as he got to his feet.

She nodded, her eyes glancing to the clock to find eleven minutes remaining in the hour.

"That'll be all for now, Lieutenant."

Rising from the chair, she offered him a salute.

Her eyes lingered on stack of papers on the edge of his desk. She bit her lip, and mentally berated herself for being so nervous. "Sir, may I?" she asked, reaching for the photo of her mother, father, and him.

"You should take them both, I've plenty at home."

"Thank you," she said ducking her head in a grateful bow as she extracted the photos from the rest of the papers.

Grumman watched her with a fond smile on his face as she gave him one last look over her shoulder before leaving his office.

With the envelope in hand and pictures secure in her pocket, she made her way to the office she'd stared at not even an hour ago.

She couldn't say whether she was more surprised or relieved to find the office empty save for the alchemist when she pushed open the door.

He glanced up from a stack of papers, the look on his face almost as shocked as the day he'd recognized her during the war.

Her back itched with the memory as she made her way to his desk. He dropped his pen and folded his hands together as he watched her.

The woolen jacket, once again, gave temporary relief to the itch as it moved across her back when she raised her hand in salute.

"Riza Hawkeye, Sir." Thoughts on how odd it felt to introduce herself as if they'd only known each other in passing ran through her head as she handed him the envelope grandfather had given her.

He opened it and skimmed through the assignment orders.

"Despite what you went through at Ishval, you still chose this path?" he asked, his voice demanding and cold.

"Yes, Sir. I chose this path myself, and put my arms through the sleeves of this uniform on my own free will," she affirmed, her voice steady and decided.

Mustang nodded. "And your area of expertise?"

"Guns," she answered, the weight of the weapons growing suddenly heavy at her sides.

Her back itched, and oh how she wished she could drop all formalities and reach behind her to scratch at it, but she wouldn't, she couldn't, not in front of him, instead she relaxed her hands at her side and said, "I like guns."


	5. No Mercy

Set pre-manga

Northern HQ was always busy—always. But this wasn't the kind of busy he wanted. Unlike Central, Western, and Eastern, most of the worries at Northern had to do with the weather. Northern dealt more with search and rescue than search and arrest.

He'd signed up to fight for his country and found himself salting icy roads instead.

A horn blared behind him and before he got a chance to glance back at the impatient driver the car was on his side, passing in the lane meant for oncoming traffic. All he caught a glimpse of was long blonde hair and the stars marking a general in the driver's seat of the car as it passed him.

It fishtailed on a particularly slippery patch of ice, and for a moment he was sure he'd have to radio in for medical help, but the car slowed and straightened.

Buccaneer heaved an exasperated sigh when the car sped back up almost immediately after straightening.

Wanting to catch a real look at this foolishly fearless general, he sped up a little—if he went too fast the machine on the back bumper wouldn't leave behind enough salt to keep ice from creeping back over the street before the next patrol came around.

He mumbled, reminding himself that this was an important job, even if it gave little chance for promotion.

.-.-.-.-.

Olivier grumbled to herself as she pulled the car into the roofed parking of Northern HQ—she hated having to perform inspections. Unless it was Briggs, it was boring.

Miles and Henshel scrambled out of the backseat as she slammed her door closed.

Before she even made it inside the building a Lieutenant stood blocking her path, his fingers pressed to his forehead in a salute.

"General Armstrong, Sir?"

"Yes."

"General Higgins has requested a fencing match with you," he reported.

"I decline," she snapped and brushed past him.

"I've been informed to tell you such a response will be considered a forfeit, as would be failing to show up at the gym before thirteen-hundred hours," he explained to her back.

She stopped just inside the door and whirled around. "Forfeit?" she growled. "Inform General Higgins I'll honor his request after a brief perimeter walk," she snapped.

The Lieutenant nodded and left with another salute, rushing to get away from the clearly frustrated General.

She didn't have to look at Miles to know he wore an amused smile. Without giving her subordinates a glance, she walked past them and back out of the building.

"He placed below me in swordsmanship in the academy, has been after a match ever since. It's probably the reason we're here, and why I'll make sure he'll never pull this again," she hissed.

Miles and Henshel shared a delighted glance. This match was going to be entertaining.

"We'll start with the outside perimeter. Then, I'll go have my match while you two continue inside, making note of what I need to look at. Most of the officers here will be at the match, so the best time to catch anything out of code will be then," she reasoned.

Henshel frowned at Miles and Miles shrugged. Both of them had thought they'd get to watch Armstrong obliterate Higgins, which promised to make their trip well worth the drive.

.-.-.-.-.

Buccaneer wasn't sure what was going on. From the moment he walked into HQ for his break, he noticed desks were unusually empty and officers rushed about the halls.

"Sergeant?" he barked as a familiar face passed.

The man stopped and saluted him.

"What's going on?" Buccaneer demanded, wondering if just maybe he'd be put to some other use than salting roads.

"General Armstrong, you know here from Briggs to conduct the inspection, was challenged to a fencing match by Higgins, and they're about to start," he explained in a hurry.

"Where?"

"The main gym, Sir"

Buccaneer grinned. "Save me a seat," he ordered, dismissing the soldier.

Lunch and a show, this was going to be the highlight of his day, maybe even week.

.-.-.-.-.

Olivier caressed the hilt of her sword, an antique passed down in the Armstrong line for generations. "Don't get too excited, we won't be drawing blood," she cooed.

She hung her thick coat and jacket just inside the woman's locker room, glad the small batch of woman working in Northern weren't there to pester her with conversation of any kind.

She wasn't surprised to find the pull out bleachers in the gym had been pulled away from the walls were filled with blue-clad bodies. A large man, nearly the size of Alex, picked his way to an empty spot among the crowd. She scowled at his ridiculous Mohawk and long moustache(and the thoughts of her even more ridiculous brother) and turned her attention back to the center of the gym where Higgins stood waiting for her.

"Are we going to be covering our blades?" she inquired.

The Lieutenant who'd informed her of the match approached her, a hard plastic sleeve in his hand. She drew her blade and waited while he fixed it on her sword.

"So, you remember my weapon well enough to have the right protection ready?" she called, a mocking bite to her words.

"Can't let anyone get the idea that they can go around practicing without using dull blades," Higgins retorted.

She laughed to herself at his excuse. A real man would have admitted his fear of being torn to shreds.

"Let's get this over with," she said through a fake yawn.

"Morris!" Higgins called.

Olivier was surprised to see the Colonel step forward from the sidelines, his age lined face carrying more wrinkles than she remembered him having when he'd instructed her at the academy.

"General Armstrong, you seem to be doing well," he greeted.

"As do you Colonel," she returned the greeting.

"Called him up here for the match. Couldn't have you claiming I won because my men are partial to me. He brought some company" Higgins explained.

Olivier grunted.

Morris gestured to the men behind him. "They've retired now, but don't mind seeing their favorite pupils engage again," Morris said as two men she vaguely remembered and a woman she didn't recognize stepped forward. Olivier nodded to them in acknowledgement. "Jensen, Gimbly, and Senlo will make up the rest of the jury."

"Let's begin then. 7 point bout. Any hit above the waist counts," Morris announced. "And nothing below," he added, giving Olivier a pointed look.

In her younger years she might have blushed at this implication, but not anymore. What she'd hated about training was that it wasn't realistic. A real enemy wouldn't hesitate to make a hit below the belt.

"Present your blades," Morris instructed.

She met Higgins at the middle of mats which had been pushed together to mark the piste for their match.

Their blades met in a quick touch, just long enough for her to remember how light his favored sword was.

"En garde," Morris called.

They both stepped away from each other and took their favorite stances. Hers was traditional and relaxed while His was tense and odd—like his body didn't quite remember how to angle his feet and knees.

.-.-.-.-.

The match started; Buccaneer forgot the tray of food balanced on his knees. His eyes followed them back and forth on the mats, their blades glinting dully in the plastic covers as they moved. Some of the officers around him jumped when the swords clashed in a particularly loud fashion, the sound echoing in the large room.

He'd be lying if he said he knew what the names for all their fancy footwork and sword maneuvers were. All he knew was that there was an attack and parry. Offense and defense, just like in any kind of fight. And it looked like Higgins was the one doing most of the attacking, while she was easily defending, catching his blade here and stepping to the side there.

Suddenly, she lunged forward and struck at Higgins, her blade landing on his outstretched arm. The first point of the match. Higgins unconsciously moved a hand across his forehead to wipe away beads of sweat. Buccaneer remembered the water sitting on the tray balanced on his knees.

She landed another hit on Higgins, this time on his chest. A quite cheer went through the crowd, some applauding her while others yelled encouragement for Higgins. She didn't pay the crowd any heed, her focus was on her sword and Higgins, nothing else. Though, something about the way she held herself told him that she would be able to dodge and ready an attack if someone from the crowd leapt at her.

Higgins' sword struck her on the shoulder, but his point quickly led to her earning one.

Buccaneer lost track of the points and marveled at how easily she moved his sword aside. For someone of her size, her strength was truly amazing. The muscles of her well toned arms rippled with her movements. He'd never have guessed she was solid muscle if he'd seen her with her uniform jacket on.

.-.-.-.-.

Olivier smirked as Higgins charged at her in a miserable attempt to get a third point. She sidestepped and swiped at his arm, earning her seventh point. His momentum took him off the mats, and she turned around to throw a victorious smirk at him.

Morris declared the end of the bout.

Higgins scowled.

"Always take advantage of your opponent's confidence, frustration, and weakness. Those who do will survive," she told Higgins as she left him there to recover from his loss. "I'll leave my inspection report in your office."

.-.-.-.-.

Buccaneer laughed to himself at her words as he tore into a biscuit. He watched as Higgins left the gym with his pride torn to shreds. The crowd began to disperse, small groups hanging behind to finish their discussions about the match.

"Higgins got in over his head with her, eh?" someone around him asked.

He nodded in agreement.

"She's probably a real Ice Queen," another commented.

"Did you see those…arms?" The words were said hesitantly with a hint of lust.

Buccaneer snorted, arms, was that the new code word now.

"I wouldn't want to be caught looking, especially after seeing that match."

Buccaneer swallowed the last of his stew and looked around. "I'm putting in for a transfer."

The benches around him went quiet.

"I'm done salting roads," he huffed when someone wiggled their eyebrows at him.

.-.-.-.-.

Olivier marched into the room with Miles on her heels. The men waiting snapped salutes. Her eyes flickered to the end of the line where a hulking man with a Mohawk stood. Her lone transfer.

He'd requested the transfer.

Requested.

Simply put, she was mildly shocked. The only transfers she usually saw were from bases that were downsizing or men who'd annoyed their superiors.

She turned her attention away from Buccaneer and to the rest of the men—all of them fresh from the academy. She loved working with clean slates.

"This is Captain Miles. He will be giving you a quick tour of Fort Briggs and then you'll each be sparring with one of my men," she announced and then turned to Miles. "Captain," she prompted.

He nodded. "Everyone pulls their weight here. You don't work, you don't eat. We think as one, move as one. This world weeds out the weak and only the fittest survive," she heard Miles recite as she left.

.-.-.-.-.

Buccaneer stood across from Olivier, reminding himself that she was stronger than she looked and not to underestimate her.

His knee protested as he straightened his leg—the aftermath of her kick to the back of it. He couldn't let her realize her kick had affected him so, not if he wanted to stand a chance against her. Surely his leg would be her main area of target if he showed any weakness.

Fighting back the wince that wanted to give away his injury, he stepped toward her.

She smirked, bouncing on her feet, ready to take on his attack.

At first, he'd been against having her as his sparring partner. He was twice her size. But his protests made her all the more eager. When he'd outright refused, she'd walked up to him, her blue eyes colder than ice, and delivered a punch to the bottom of his jaw that had sent him stumbling backwards.

He made a jab at her, but she dodged with a hop to the side.

"Faster," she demanded.

He grumbled under his breath. The way she'd dodged reminded him of how she'd won the match against Higgins. Suddenly, as he backed out of reach of her swing, he didn't think the way Higgins had run at her so desperate. He had to throw her off somehow.

He charged at her, feinted to her right, and then sent a fist down on her left shoulder. He put all of his weight and momentum into the hit.

She stumbled, grabbed at his long moustache hairs, and wrapped her leg around his aching knee, making his momentum work against him.

Somehow, during their tumble, she'd maneuvered around so she landed on top of him.

"Well done Lieutenant Buccaneer," she said as she got to her feet. She extended a hand to help him to his feet and as soon as he was standing she turned her attention from him to where the cadets were going through drills with their own sparring partners. All of them avoided her gaze in hopes that she wouldn't take them on next.

"Time to get cleaned up," she announced.

A collective sigh of relief passed through the gym as tension eased from the bodies of the cadets.

"Tonight, we go into town to celebrate your first day here at Briggs!"

While the others cheered as she walked away, he watched her with weary eyes. She didn't seem the type to celebrate first days.

Henshel walked into the gym. "You have until sixteen-hundred hours to be down at the transport bay. No uniforms. Civvies only, and look nice. They may not know you, but everyone in town knows the General and we won't act kindly towards anyone who mars her reputation," he informed them.

.-.-.-.-.

Buccaneer sat in the back of the large transport that Henshel drove with the inexperienced cadets around him. They chattered on about how General Armstrong wasn't as bad as the rumors let on, especially not if she was taking them out. Their fear and awe of her had lessened with her in a separate car.

He didn't think the night was going to turn out to be quite as good as the other men expected.

.-.-.-.-.

Olivier waved the owner of the tavern over.

"Some new men, eh?" he asked as he wiped his hand on the apron around his waist.

"Fresh from the academy, all except the big one," she told him.

"The usual?"

She nodded.

He grinned.

Buccaneer didn't like the look of that grin. Nor did he like the quiet chuckling Henshel tried to hide with his hand, or the dark glasses that hid Miles eyes.

He looked away from the tavern owner and back to his comrades. None of them seemed to sense that something was afoot. He shrugged off his suspicions and listened as Smith mentioned his wife would love the old tavern.

The same redhead who'd brought their food over appeared with a tray of drinks balanced on her upturned palm. A smile graced her pink lips as she set down a mug in front of each man.

Olivier was the last to get her drink. She raised her mug in a toast. "To Briggs!"

The ceramic mugs clanked together in agreement and the men followed Olivier in downing their drinks.

The redhead was at their table swapping out the mugs for new ones before anyone had a chance to ask for more or decline.

.-.-.-.-.

He wasn't sure how many drinks had been set on the table, but the tavern had emptied of families having dinner and filled with men and woman having drinks. And now, the crowd of regulars was thinning out.

"You're falling behind," Henshel told him, giving him a nudge in the side.

Buccaneer gave a sheepish grin to his superior. "The night's seems to be winding down, so I thought I'd just nurse this one," he explained.

"Ah, smart man," Miles commented, looking around the cadets who were wobbling with the effort to stay upright in their chairs.

.-.-.-.-.

Olivier's eyes followed Buccaneer as he headed for the bathroom. She frowned at how sure his steps were and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Was he a spy? Did he know about her hazing ritual? Who had spilled the beans? Why the hell wasn't he drunk off his ass?

Teresa sat down another round of mugs on the table, the sounds of the ceramic cups clinking against one another and the table top brought Smith's head up from the table—a bit too quickly for his liquor filled stomach. Olivier recognized the greenish hue to his skin and scooted her chair away from the table just as Smith's dinner and drinks covered it.

"Miles, Henshel, take them back. I think they'll all need an early run to get going in the morning," she ordered.

Henshel nodded and helped the profusely apologizing Smith to his feet. He let the cadet use him as a crutch to keep him steady as they made their way to the tavern's doors.

"C'mon, all of you," Miles ordered, watching as the rest of them swayed on their feet, but managed to head for the exit without bumping into anyone or anything. Once they'd all disappeared from the tavern, Miles turned around to head for the bathroom, but halted when Olivier shook her head.

He raised an eyebrow in interest.

"I'll deal with that one," she told him, unwilling to share her suspicions. Teresa had returned with a bucket in her glove-clad hands.

"Won't happen again," Olivier apologized.

"Not until you get a new batch at least. I'm not sure if we lose or gain business from it. You ring up a big enough bill, but we never see any of your men again. They're always too traumatized to come back," the redhead grumbled as she started to clean the mess.

.-.-.-.-.

Buccaneer splashed cold water on his face to sober up. Never before had he met someone so tiny who could hold in so much liquor. Even he was starting to feel a bit fuzzyheaded, but she didn't seem to be showing any signs of drinking.

His eyes widened in surprise when he found the table empty save for the redhead who scrubbed at it with her gloved hands.

He looked around and found the General staring at him from the bar counter. She patted the stool beside her.

"You still have to catch up to the others," she told his, sliding a glass in his direction as he sat down.

He stared at the dark amber liquid, not quite sure he should drink it.

"Never seen rum before?" she teased.

Olivier caught the bartender's attention, and he poured a cup of the rum for her.

She shot him a challenging look as she put the rim of her glass to her lips.

With the thought of knowing out-drinking her would at least give him the satisfaction of knowing she'd have a headache in the morning, his hand closed around his glass.

His eyes widened at the burn of the first drink.

He coughed.

She laughed.

Two glasses took the place of their empty ones,

"Who are you working for?" she demanded.

"You."

"Wrong answer."

He mulled the question over for a minute. "The Führer."

"Wrong again."

"Who are you working for?" he turned the question on her, his lips working faster than his brain. Had that really been just rum?

"You're lucky you're in civvies."

He shrugged.

"You work for Amestris, remember that when you're caught in the middle of a blizzard fighting Drachman soldiers. It's not just me or the Führer that you hold the border for, it's every Amestrian," she lectured.

He nodded.

She pushed his glass closer to him.

"Don't give me reason to doubt you again," she warned.

He nodded again, unwilling to open his mouth lest words leave it before he thought them through again. So instead, he downed the second glass of rum.

.-.-.-.-.

He slammed down the glass on the counter and the few people left in the tavern cheered. As far as he knew it could have been glass three or ten, and he had no idea if she was behind or ahead of him, but a niggling voice told him not to pick up the next glass. The rest of him was in the moment, and he made to reach for the glass, but his fumbling hand couldn't quite find it. Eventually, he knocked it over.

Olivier grumbled as liquor spilled on her arm.

She kicked at Buccaneer's stool in retaliation, frustrated when it the stool didn't even wobble.

"Teresa, make sure to give yourself a good tip," she yelled more than said as she got off her stool. "Time to head back," she told Buccaneer and made her way to the doors without waiting for him.

Her movements were slow and deliberate, controlled in an attempt to hide the fact that her head was spinning and that she'd much rather have stayed seated.

Buccaneer followed after her, his steps more natural, less robotic than hers, yet clearly the walk of one who'd been drinking. The streets were covered with snow and his eyes narrowed against the sharp wind.

It was when he saw her standing at the car with her blonde hair flying about in the wind that he remembered the bit of her driving he'd seen.

The keys fell from her hand and she mumbled a curse.

He picked up his pace.

A cry of triumph escaped her lips as she picked the keys up off the street, but she'd straightened up too fast and her head swam with vertigo for a moment.

He took the opportunity to snatch the keys from her hand.

She twirled around with a growl and, after a second of battling her dizziness, lunged at him.

He dodged, stumbling in the process.

"I've seen your driving," he protested.

"Its not that bad," she hissed—he'd hit her weak spot.

"It might not be when you're sober," he shot back as the momentum from his stumble carried him backwards until he crashed into a brick wall behind him.

She gave a dry laugh. "Oh, and you want me to let you drive in that state?" she asked, her voice dripping with venom.

He shook his head.

She approached him, giving him her patented bone-chilling stare.

He ignored her glare, had to. If either of them drove and she wound up hurt, he knew that he'd be a dead man.

"Then. Give. Them. To. Me," she hissed, pulling at his arm to get to the hand he held raised out of her reach, the keys glittering in his fist.

He raised his arm higher in denial, yanking free of her grip.

She scowled up at him. Alex was the only one ever to have the courage to play keep away with her, and he always wound up in a heap on the ground because of it.

She wanted to take a swing at her subordinate, but if he dodged she'd have more than a pounding head in the morning.

She had two options, and one she refused to use unless she had to.

She smirked as Colonel Morris' words rang in her ears.

Buccaneer frowned.

Her stance shifted.

Just in time, his brain warned him and his hand blocked her knee from delivering what would have been a paralyzing blow.

Her eyes widened in surprise, he must not have been giving it his all in their sparring match. She tucked away her frustration for another time and, while he was still distracted by keeping her knee away, pulled at his moustache, bringing him down to her eyelevel.

In a last-ditch attempt to get the keys, she pressed her lips against his.

Buccaneer's body tensed, he knew a diversionary tactic when he saw (or felt) one, and he took the opportunity to throw the keys.

The moment she felt his arm move, she pulled away from him, but it was too late—the keys were already soaring through the air. The flurries of snow made it impossible to see where they had landed, but she was determined to find them.

Buccaneer repressed the shiver that wanted to dance across his spine when she stepped away from him.

His entire face was hot, and he would have wagered his life on it not being a side effect of the alcohol.

Before she got more than two steps away, he caught her arm and pulled her back.

She was going to kill him for it, but she'd started it. Pushing the thought of his impending untimely demise away, he captured her lips with his.

He was surprised when, rather than pulling away, she returned the kiss.

"You know I can make your life hell, right?" she asked as she pulled away from him.

"I figured as much," he replied, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

"I think I can put that off until later. Right now there are more pressing matters to attend to," she told him, her eyes taking on a predatory gleam that would have been frightening under different circumstances. Before he could comprehend her meaning, she walked away.

He stood there for a moment watching her. When she didn't go in the direction he'd thrown the keys, he followed after her.

She led him to a rundown looking inn down the street.

.-.-.-.-.

Buccaneer's head was pounding when he opened his eyes. It took him a minute to remember where he was and when he did he looked around the room for her, but all he found was a note on the bedside table.

As he picked up the paper, he grinned at the idea of her writing a note to him.

_Since you've missed the early morning run that the others had the advantage of taking this morning, you're to walk back to Briggs. Report to Captain Miles at ten-hundred hours, he has your orders for you. Unless you've woken before the time I set for the innkeeper to wake you, you have an hour. _

His grin widened as he recalled her telling him she could make his life hell. A little walk was nothing.

He plucked his pants from the ground and dug through the pockets until he found his watch.

Eight-hundred hours, he even had time for a shower.

.-.-.-.-.

With half of the distance to Briggs behind him, he checked his watch.

A quarter till nine-hundred hours.

The road curved up ahead, but before he reached the curve someone in white seemed to rise out of the snow—then another, a third, a fourth, and a fifth. They each had a gun pointed at him, and he was sure if he turned around there would be more behind him.

He put up his hands.

"I'm Lieutenant Buccaneer, just transferred here," he said.

"Transferred? No one transfers to Briggs," one said through a chuckle.

The man closest to him grunted in disbelief. "You're not wearing a uniform, got any identification?"

He reached for his back pocket and pulled handed over his wallet.

The soldier laughed at him. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked as he threw the wallet down.

It flopped open as it hit the snow, revealing that it had been emptied. Buccaneered sighed to himself.

This wasn't going to be a simple walk.


	6. Stationary

Set in the early days of the Ishval War

The pen met the desk with a thunk as he released it.

Sighing, he stretched his cramped fingers.

Sliding his glasses up to his forehead, he looked up at the blurry ceiling and then closed his eyes against it.

All around him, he heard the frantic scratching of pens against paper, pages turning, thumps of the Amestrian seal being stamped onto finished reports, and weary sighs that mirrored his own.

He blindly reached for his pen, but it wasn't there.

Wanting just another second of not having to stare at the coded message he was working on, his hand meandered across the desk in search of his pen.

Feeling nothing but rough paper and polished wood under his fingertips, he groaned and slid his glasses back down to the bridge of his nose as he straightened.

"Damnit," he cursed under his breath when he didn't spot the pen on the desktop.

His skin prickled at the eyes glancing at him, but he paid them no heed.

He searched the linoleum tile around his feet as he pushed away from the desk. A look to the right revealed the pen settling a few feet away from his desk.

The sole of his boots slapping against the floor disrupted the steady rhythm of pen strokes that filled the office.

His face twisted with a flash of pain when his back popped in protest as he straightened with the rogue pen in hand.

Holding the pen in a white-knuckled grip, he returned to his chair and picked up where he'd left off on the stack of coded Aerugon messages he'd been assigned for the remainder of the day. Pulling the pen across his own paper, he wrote down the uncoded message in his neat printing, but before he got far his pen started dragging, the lines of his letters turned out disconnected, and eventually the only thing the pen left in its wake were indentations the tip of the pen made in the paper, a ghost of the words he'd meant to write.

He violently shook the pen, but the shaking yielded no results aside from doubling his irritation. He wanted to break the thing in half, but even worse than the pen were those damn Aerugons. If not for them all this work could be done by typewriter, but no, now that it was clear they'd supplied the Ishvalans with weapon, the government wasn't allowing trade with them. The one thing the Aerugons made best was ink ribbons for typewriters and with them in short supply nearly everything was being written by hand: memos, reports, assignments, and even the orders every soldier dreaded the sight of.

Every morning they started out with a list of names. He was almost relieved that he didn't need to worry about seeing his own name, or wonder if any of the others in the office were writing out the orders for him while he worked on none-the-wiser.

No, he didn't have to think on it anymore, because just days before Armstrong had let out an irritated sigh so unlike him that all the scratching had stopped and all eyes had focused on him.

The only time Hughes recalled ever seeing the usually carefree alchemist ever look so grim was the day war had been declared against Ishvalans.

The moment Armstrong's blue eyes met his, he'd known exactly what it was—his name had appeared on the list.

Hughes was startled out of his thoughts by an M.P. stopping in front of his desk.

He looked up from the paper he hadn't been reading and waited.

"Lieutenant Hughes?"

With a quick glance around the room, he nodded. Everyone was staring at him. He knew what they were all thinking—his orders had been pushed forward. They'd all seen it happen on more than one occasion.

"The operator is holding an urgent call for you from a Shirley Hughes, Sir," he announced.

"Urgent?" Hughes echoed, dropping the pen again.

The officer nodded.

"Where?" he demanded as he got to his feet not minding the pen as it rolled off the end of his desk again.

"She's on one of the lines downstairs."

He didn't even bother to ask for dismissal, just sprinted out of the office with a burning weight sinking to the pit of his stomach.

Men and women going about their business moved out of his way as he clamored through the halls. "Oi, slow down!" a voice shouted after him, but he kept up the pace that made his racing heart hammer in his chest.

The closing elevator doors didn't stop him, instead he flew to the small door leading to the stairway. His footsteps echoed throughout the small tiers of cement step after cement step, the racket so loud he couldn't comprehend the troubled thoughts buzzing about his head. He didn't even notice the people meandering through the halls—his focus was on the door that led to the phones.

The door thumped against the doorjamb as he flung it open and, before it closed, he found himself hunched over with his hands planted on the main desk while he tried to catch his breath.

The woman nearly shushed him when he stopped at her desk panting like he hadn't since the first day of P.T..

"I…my…Hughes," he managed between heavy breaths.

Her honey-colored eyes brightened with recognition at his name. "Third phone down," she told him, her words fading out when he left her alone behind the desk before she'd finished speaking.

"Mom, what happened?" he urged, his body all tension and nerves as he stood between the pieces of wood on either side of the phone that gave some semblance of privacy from anyone else who happened to be on one of the many phones along the wall.

Turning his back on the woman at the main desk, he slumped against the wooden divider and pulled his hand wearily down his face.

"Ma," he groaned.

"No, that doesn't qualify as urgent!" he half shouted, half whispered.

"You know, I do have a phone at my apartment," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Mom, no, I didn't mean for it to sound like that."

The brown-eyed woman glanced at him, her eyebrows knit together with worry at the panic in his voice.

"Sorry…it's just these lines aren't for personal calls, especially not now."

"Of course I miss you and Dad," he reassured her, switching the phone from his right hand to his left.

"Really? That's what this was all about?" he huffed, shaking his head.

"Yeah, all right Mom, I'll stop by the shop on my way home," he agreed.

"No, my home, my apartment," he corrected, his fingers tightening around the phone.

He sighed.

"I'll try to on my days off, just don't—"

"I said try, don't go making plans already!" he told her, exasperation filling his voice.

"I will. I've got to go," he told her.

"Yeah, Mom, I'll stop by the shop and pick some up," he repeated in a huff. "Love you, too. Mhm, tell Dad I say hi," he said, shaking his head as he hung the phone up.

Dreading returning to the office after the scene he'd made, he stood there staring at the phone as it hung silently in place. "Urgent," he muttered with tired laugh.

"Is everything all right, Lieutenant Hughes?"

Light glinted off his glasses as he looked in her direction.

"Yeah, uh, sorry about that," he apologized as he sheepishly ran a hand through his dark hair.

"Don't worry about it, I can understand a mother's concern," she said brushing off his apology.

"A mother's concern," he echoed shaking his head incredulously.

She watched him walk past her desk with a knowing smile on her face. "You'll understand one day," she called after him as he opened the door.

"I won't be that type of father," he vowed as he joined the other officers walking the halls.

He was surprised to find the office empty save for Armstrong sitting at his desk eating the lunch his younger sister had no doubt dropped off for him.

"Lieutenant?" the alchemist greeted.

"Major," he replied as he gave a halfhearted salute.

"Is everything all right?" Do you need any time off?" Armstrong asked, his eyes dark with concern.

"Aside from my mother not knowing the meaning of the word urgent, everything is fine," he assured the man, suddenly aware that Armstrong had probably sent everyone off to lunch for his sake. Sometimes, the thoughtfulness of the hulking man still surprised him. "Thanks for asking though," he added as he picked up his pen from where it sat undisturbed on the floor.

.-.-.-.-.

Hughes buried his hand in his pockets as he walked home. An array of colors painted the wisps of clouds floating in the sky that was caught in the twilight of the setting sun.

He could barely make out the clock tower, but he didn't need to be able to read its hands to know he'd gotten out later than planned. He almost took the shortcut that would have led him away from the shop he'd promised to go by, surely it was closed, but something told him that if he didn't go now than he would forget.

Hughes glanced into the window of the small gift shop as he passed by. Light spilled outand brightened the sidewalk between the streetlamps that were flickering on to combat the falling darkness.

Movement in the back of the shop caught his eyes and he doubled back to watch as a girl, no, woman gracefully turned circles around the room as she straightened things up.

She started at the ringing of the bell attached to the door as he pulled it open and he grinned at having caught her unaware. A soft tune that he was sure he should have been able to name met his ears once the ringing of the bell quieted.

"I'm sorry, we're closed," she stammered, the embarrassment in her voice emphasized by the blush that rose to her cheeks.

Looking over his shoulder, he pointed at the sign. "It still says open."

Her green eyes found the clock and she took a deep, calming breath. "Well, I suppose you can be the last customer…Lieutenant," she said, adding the title after considering the marks on his epaulets for a moment.

"Hughes," he introduced himself.

"Gracia," she told him as she took the hand he'd stuck out. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the soldier as he shook her hand—she couldn't recall a customer ever greeting her with a hand shake.

"How may I help you, Lieutenant Hughes?" she asked as he released her hand.

His eyes followed her as she walked past him and flipped over the sign hanging in the window. He was suddenly glad for not having taken the shortcut.

"Lieutenant?" she called, her voice bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Stationary," he said hastily as he realized she'd caught him staring.

She led him past the postcards and greeting cards to a counter where a thin sheet of glass sat over a collection of paper.

"We have all of these in stock and ready for pick-up now, unless you'd like us to print a monogram or header, then you can pick them up tomorrow afternoon, have them delivered, or mailed. If you'd like them printed on a higher grade of paper we can do that, too," she informed him, sliding a book in his direction.

"I just want something plain and simple," he said as he leafed through the book of fonts and paper. "No use for anything fancy when there'll be dirt on my hands more often than not."

She frowned at him. "Ishval?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Girlfriend making you write everyday?" she joked, trying to ease the dark atmosphere settling in the shop.

He threw his head back and laughed.

"My mother," he corrected.

"They're not going to supply you with paper?"

"I can't be sure what I'll get aside form the essentials until I get out there," he explained.

"So you'll need envelopes, too?" she ventured.

"Trying to milk me for all I'm worth?" he joked.

"No, I wasn't, I just…" she attempted to defend herself, not having caught onto his joking tone.

"It's okay, I probably should get some envelopes."

"You have all the same options as with the paper and we can print the return address on the envelopes, but I'm guessing you just want plain ones."

He nodded, and she turned her back to him to pull two packages from the shelf behind her.

"Did you want lined paper?"

"Yeah," he answered, sure that lined paper would be a relief from the unlined paper he had to use everyday.

"Stamps?" she asked as she added envelops to a box of paper.

"The one thing I know I won't need, but I will need pens," he mused.

"Right down that way," she said, pointing to the aisle behind him. "I'll meet you at the register," she told him as she grabbed the box and walked to the front of the store.

While he browsed through the assortment of pens, purposefully ignoring the ones similar to those at H.Q., the soft music he'd forgotten was playing suddenly stopped. He took that as his cue to grab a box and head to the register.

Gracia was slipping on a cardigan the pale pink of cherry blossoms.

"Ready?"

He set the pens on the counter and pulled out his wallet.

Glancing outside, he was surprised how quickly the remaining light had faded from the sky. Surely, he couldn't have been in the shop that long.

She returned a handful of coins as change and he took the box of paper and envelopes she'd slipped the pens into.

The bell on the door chimed as he pulled it open, and he waited there until she turned out the lights and stepped outside.

"Thank you," she said, acknowledging his actions with a bob of her head and quick smile.

"No problem."

She locked the door and slipped the keys into the small purse hanging from her shoulder.

"Sorry for keeping you so late, let me walk you home," he offered.

"I'll be fine on my own."

"You really shouldn't be walking alone at ni—"

"I'll be fine, it's not that—"

"I insist," he cut her off.

She shrugged her shoulders, both put off and mildly pleased at his insistence. "It's this way," she conceded, taking him in the opposite direction from his apartment.

He watched her from the corner of his eyes as they walked, and if hadn't been doing so wouldn't have realized she'd turned at the end of the block. The street was no longer lined with stores, but with small houses lit up against the dark. She came to a stop four houses down.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Hughes," she said, holding out a hand.

"You can call me Maes," he suggested, shaking her hand for the second time that evening.

"Well, Lieutenant Maes Hughes, good night," she bid as their hand shake ended and she walked up the steps to the blue door of the beige house.

Good night," he called back, watching from the sidewalk as she disappeared into the house.

"Who was that?" he heard someone ask from inside as she closed the door.

He took a little longer than usual to walk home that night, occasionally smiling up at the stars and remembering his dad once telling him there was no such thing as coincidence. Once he got to his apartment, he pulled out the standard-issue duffle bag that was shoved under his bed and put the box inside with the other non-essentials he planned on taking with him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he chastised himself for buying the pens already, now he wouldn't have a legitimate reason to return to the gift shop.

Another part of his mind reminded him that he never would have met Gracia if not for his mother's nagging.

"It is a gift shop and Mom and Dad's anniversary is coming up," he reasoned with himself.


	7. Stray Dog

Set pre-manga, spoilers for Hohenheim's past.

Trisha hummed to herself as she carried her blue watering can from the river to her garden at the edge of her parent's land.

A breeze pulled her hair every which way and she closed her eyes to bask in the relief from the hot Resembool day that the breeze offered.

When she opened her eyes, she gasped in surprise.

A man with long blond hair was lying facedown at the edge of her garden.

Water sloshed out of the top of the watering can as she ran to him.

With a shaking hand, she felt around for a pulse, just as Sara and Urey had taught her to do when helping them. She heaved a relieved sigh a she found the pulse running strong and steady.

Shaking him, she spotted a bottle glittering in his hand. Stray Dogs liquor—her eyes narrowed and she splashed him with water.

He groaned and his eye blinked open behind his dirty glasses.

She gasped, those golden eyes—this was definitely Pinako's mysterious friend, but she couldn't recall his name.

"Drink some," she ordered, putting the spout of her watering can to his lips.

"Thanks," he murmured and then his eyes were closed again.

"It's best if you stay awake," she cautioned as she shook him again.

"'m fine," he slurred.

"You don't look fine," she argued, taking in his pasty pallor.

He didn't respond.

"C'mon, up," she ordered, pulling on the arm closest to her as she stood.

His eyes opened again and he gave her a weary look.

Suddenly, she reminded him of the group of Xingese merchants who'd found him long ago.

He struggled to his feet with her help. His stomach lurched with the effort and he stumbled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so hung over. He stumbled again and his queasy stomach emptied on her eggplants.

Surprisingly, she didn't pull away or scoff with disgust. Instead, she reached behind herself with her freehand and untied the apron around her waist, offering it to him to wipe his mouth.

"Thanks," he said, his voice raspy and raw.

"I'd take you home and let you rest it off, but my parents wouldn't approve. Do you think you can make it to the Rockbells'?" she asked as she pulled his arms across her shoulders to keep him from stumbling again.

He nodded.

"So, what's your name?" she asked, not comfortable with the awkward silence that surrounded their footsteps.

"Hohenheim."

"Trisha Elric," she introduced herself.

More silence.

"Have a bad card game?" she guessed.

He gave a dry laugh. "To say the least."

She studied him for a moment—his golden eyes had taken him to a faraway place. This time she let the silence carry on.

At long last a yellow house came into view and their pace quickened.

A shout filled the air, and Trisha looked up just in time to see Sara disappearing from the balcony into the house.

As they neared the house Sara and Pinako joined them.

"Eh, I was wondering where you'd gone off to this time," Pinako commented as she took in the rumpled, dirt-stained state of his clothes.

Hohenheim pulled away from Trisha and managed to trudge the few more feet to the house.

"What'd he do, sleep in a ditch?" Pinako asked once he was out of earshot.

"My garden," Trisha corrected, her eyes fixed on the door as it closed behind him.

"Well, thanks for dragging him back here. After last night's game I doubt he could have gotten a room—he took Mienar and Schell for just about everything they had on them. Maybe he should have taken their clothes, too," she mused.

Trisha frowned—not a bad card game at all. "I better go before Mom and Dad start to worry," she said, and left the Rockbells to discuss Hohenheim's winning.

.-.-.-.-.

The house was dark as he made his way down the stairs. Pinako had mentioned having to go into town for supplies, and he was more than sure Sara was still at the little office she and Urey owned.

A knock sounded on the door again.

Trisha stood on the porch in the dimming sunlight.

"Hi," he murmured.

She smiled and he couldn't help but smile back.

"I made you something," she told him, offering him the pot she held in her arms.

He raised an eyebrow as he took it.

"Stew," she told him.

"Come in," he invited, stepping back.

"I made it from the vegetables in my garden," she added as she followed him to the kitchen.

He paled for a moment at the mention of her garden and his stomach sank at the memory.

"Sorry," he apologized sheepishly.

"It's okay, I used the eggplant."

"I'm joking," she said when her teasing only produced silence.

He nodded and shifted the pot around so he could gesture for her to follow him to the kitchen.

"It's cold, so you'll have to heat it up," she told him.

He set the pot on the stovetop and lit the burner.

"Thanks for this morning."

She nodded, leaning against the table, watching him.

He looked through the drawers for a spoon, trying to escape her observant eyes. He felt like she could see right through him to the philosopher's stone that haunted him.

"Pinako said your card game went well," she said, trying to get his attention.

He nodded.

"She keeps the ladles two drawers to the right," Trisha told him when she finally puzzled together what he was looking for.

As he pulled a ladle from said drawer, he wondered how often she had been in the Rockbell house to know where things were kept off the top of her head. He couldn't recall ever meeting her before. He stirred the warming stew.

When he set the spoon down on the counter, she was beside him.

"Sit down, you look like you still aren't feeling well," she observed as she put the back of her hand to his forehead.

He stood there watching as she pulled two bowls out from a cupboard.

"Go on, sit down," she repeated.

He did as she said, and this time he watched her. She moved around the kitchen as if it belonged to her. A cup of cold juice was soon in front of him, and after a few minutes of silence, a bowl of steaming stew was set next to the cup of juice.

She smiled expectantly at him from across the table.

Again, he couldn't help but smile back.

As he put a spoonful of stew to his mouth, he wondered if just maybe he would be able to tell her the truth.


	8. Breaking From Tradition

Set pre-manga

"I am trying, Mother!" Phillip Gargantos Armstrong argued.

"Are you sure?" she prodded.

"Of course he is, he's an Armstrong," his father boomed as he entered the study.

Phillip looked up at his father and sighed. He already knew what his problem was—his height. Or lack of it.

"Don't let it worry you m'boy, we Armstrong have always been able to find the best women in Amestris," his father reassured him with a comforting pat on the back that would have sent any normal young man to the ground, but not an Armstrong with all of the excellent muscle and might the name boasted.

His mother clapped her hands in demand of his attention. "Now, that that's all settled, did you keep your evening free?"

"Mother, the Ice Sculpting Festival is tonight," he reminded her.

"That's perfect," his father boomed, aiming a grin of approval at his wife.

His mother's grin was so wide it seemed to split her face in half.

"Mother?" Phillip ventured, too afraid to find out what she was scheming behind those twinkling eyes.

"It really is perfect. You can display your skill as an alchemist and woo her at the same time by making a sculpture of her," she declared.

"Mother, it's Armstrong tradition to win with the likeness of an Armstrong!" he argued.

"He's right m'dear."

"You see this is where it gets interesting," she began, an air of confidence in her voice that made both her son and husband wait with bated breath for her to continue. "If you win, she must be the one."

Phillip's mouth worked open and close in attempt to protest as he looked between his parents—his mother was grinning like an Armstrong who'd popped their first stitch and his father was twisting the curl of his moustache in thought,.

"I'm not going to propose just because I win the contest with a sculpture of her," he managed to splutter.

"But you will use her as your model?" his mother asked.

His shoulders slumped in defeat, he'd just agreed to it, hadn't he?

"Yes, Mother," he huffed.

"Well then, what are you waiting for? Go get ready for your date," his mother ordered as she shooed him toward the stairs.

"I'll call your sister to have a bouquet made," his dad called after him.

.-.-.-.-.

He felt ridiculous as the driver passed the park where the festival was already starting. Everyone was out in warm winter clothes, but he was wearing a suit—all because of the date.

He glanced over at the camellia and almond blossom bouquet occupying the seat beside him.

"We're here," the driver announced.

A set of steps led to a grand set of doors that made him feel shorter than usual. The lion head knocker was higher up on the door than he expected, but thankfully he could reach it without issue.

The door swung inward to reveal a wiry old man in black livery with a lion head embroidered on his lapel. "Mr. Armstrong, I presume," the man said as he looked down at Phillip.

He nodded and the man stepped aside for him to enter.

A woman with the lion head embroidered on the collar of her dress held out her hand to him. "I'll put them in a vase, Young Master," she offered, eyeing the bouquet of pink and white.

She bobbed a curtsy before scurrying away with the flowers.

"Miss Augustina is almost ready. Sir and Lady Epstein would like you to keep them company while you wait," the man informed him.

"As they wish," he agreed and let the man lead him away from the foyer.

"If it isn't Phillip Gargantos Armstrong," Mr. Epstein greeted jovially.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sir," Phillip said as he shook the man's hand.

"Augustina should be down soon, have a seat," Mr. Epstein offered, gesturing to the only available chair in the room.

A small coffee table laden with a teapot, cups on saucers, cream, and sugars sat between him and the couple.

Mrs. Epstein eyed him from behind her dark bangs as she took a sip of her tea.

The cup hardly made a sound as she placed it delicately upon a saucer. "You've got your father's looks, but mother's stature," she observed.

"He's still got time to grow, Juniper. If my memory serves me right, Louie wasn't the tallest of us until right before I married you," Mr. Epstein reminded his wife.

"Now that you mention it, I do recall him being a bit on the short side when he stated dating Camellia," she mused.

Phillip was so ecstatic to hear he still had a chance to grow that he missed the venom in the woman's voice, but he didn't miss the warning look Mr. Epstein shot at his wife.

Mr. Epstein opened his mouth, but before any words left him, the doors behind him burst open.

A young woman with her golden hair done up in a pile of curls atop her head glared at the maids on either side of her.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Phillip," she apologized.

He stood. "It allowed me the pleasure of meeting your parents," he replied, slightly less disappointed that she was taller than him now that he knew his father had a late growth spurt.

"Thank you for the flowers. The camellias and almond blossoms complement each other well," she told him.

"Not as well as that dress complements your figure," he countered, remembering his mother's advice to compliment his date's appearance.

She smiled at him.

Mrs. Epstein scowled behind her cup.

Mr. Epstein laughed. "He's quite the charmer. We might just have to send a chaperon," he teased.

"Father!"

"A joke, Augustina. Let your father have his fun," Mrs. Epstein chided.

"Well, we should be going," Augustina suggested.

Phillip looked at the grandfather clock across the room and nodded. "We have reservations at the end of the hour."

"Then you really should be going," Mr. Epstein agreed as he got to his feet. Mrs. Epstein rose along with him.

Phillip's eyes went wide at her height—she towered over him.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," he managed as he shook hands with each of them.

"Pleasure was ours," Mrs. Epstein echoed hollowly then added, "If you're not a perfect gentleman to my only daughter I'll not be as nice next time we meet."

"And I'll not restrain her," Mr. Epstein joked, giving Phillip another firm handshake.

"I'll have her back to you after the sculpting contest," he promised.

"If you were to keep her out for a dessert and short stroll afterward, I wouldn't mind, just have her back before one," Mr. Epstein told him.

Mrs. Epstein sent her husband a surprised glare, but didn't argue.

Phillip nodded, and Augustina took him by the arm to lead him out of the room.

Her parents followed after them, stopping at the porch to see them off.

Once Augustina released him, Phillip rushed ahead and waved off the driver who stood ready to open the door. If he knew anything about dating, it was that he had to open the car door to start the night off on the right foot. No matter how horrible introductions had gone that one gesture set the mood for the rest of the night.

Augustina smiled at him as she ducked into the vehicle and whispered her thanks just before he closed the door.

Rounding the car, he shook his head as the driver made to open the door for him.

Once he was inside the car, she turned to get a good look at him. There was something charming about the way the ends of his moustache curled up.

The car ride to the restaurant was quiet. She wasn't quite sure what her parents had said to him, only that the atmosphere had been incredibly tense when she'd walked in, and somehow that tension had followed them. So, while she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her dress, she tried to think of something to say—anything that would break the ice—but just as she opened her mouth to ask if he'd ever attended the Ice Sculpture Festival before, the car pulled to a stop and he leapt out of the door to trot around the car to open the door for her. She was almost glad for the interruption, because it was really a ridiculous question—everyone in Central knew the Armstrongs were talented when it came to sculpting.

He offered her his hand as she stepped out of the car and she smiled—unable to remember the last time anyone who hadn't been paid to had opened doors for her and gave her a steadying hand as she got out of a car.

As she straightened—their hands slipping apart—he gave her a nervous smile and she found herself grinning back at him, glad that her mother's hatred for the Amstrongs had made her decide to go with her father's proposed suitor for the night.

.-.-.-.-.

With dinner finished, they hardly knew a thing about each other. The usually quiet restaurant had brought in quite the crowd with its special for the festival which prevented them from being able to properly hear one another's questions(and answers to said questions) over the noise.

Once they were out the glass doors, she opened her mouth to ask what he liked to do in his free time, but he spoke first.

"Would you mind if we walk? The festival is in the center of the park," he said as he pointed across the street.

"Not at all," she agreed.

He offered her his arms and she hesitantly accepted.

"Have you ever been to the festival?" he asked conversationally.

"I haven't been to once since my grandfather retired to Aerugo years ago. We usually spend winter with him, but he's off on some adventure in Xing," she explained.

"Aerugo in the winter," he mulled it over for a minute, recalling the summer trip he'd gone on two years ago. "It's a beautiful country, a bit warm, but beautiful.

"That's why the winter is so nice there," she told him.

A breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees and she shivered.

"Oh, you're not used to Central winters, yet. Here," he said as he pulled his arm away from her and shrugged out of his coat.

She shook her head, but he ignored her protest and put his coat on her shoulders.

She smiled and whispered a 'thank you' as they continued their walk through the park.

The closer they got to the center of the park, the more the traffic on the footpaths thickened, until they had to squeeze together to get by a pair going the opposite way.

Phillip nodded his head in acknowledgement when his name was called, but didn't stop for conversation. "So, what would you be doing if you were in Aerugo?" he asked as he waved to Giolio Comanche, probably the only contestant that was shorter than him, despite being five years his senior.

"Giolio Comanche, my biggest competition if he refrains from using silver," he explained when he noticed Augustina looking at all the silver rings the man wore.

"Comanche." She looked after the man for a moment, and then turned back to Phillip with a smile. "Mother's choice," she said to herself.

"Mother's choice?" he repeated, not quite sure he'd heard right.

Augustina's cheeks reddened, she hadn't meant to say that aloud. "Mother wanted me to be out with him tonight," she explained.

"And I'm your father's choice?" he asked, wondering if his parents had ever argued over who his date would be.

She nodded just as they rounded a turn that lead into the festival.

"How'd you decide?" he asked, curious to know.

Her gaze flickered from the line of game booths, to the square of merchants, over to the dance floor, to the stalls selling food, and then to the huge blocks of ice set in the middle of the clearing.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" she asked when she noticed him looking at her.

He smiled and shook the question from his head. "What would you like to do first?"

"When does the sculpting start?"

He started to look for his pocket watch, but remembered it was in his coat. "They'll call for us when it's about time to start."

"What are they doing there?" she asked, pointing to a games booth.

"Throwing darts at blocks of ice. Let's go see how much it is," he said, leading her into the clearing.

She followed along, feeling overdressed as they made their way through the crowd.

When they stopped, she stood watching as men hurled darts at little blocks of ice that hung on a sheet of plywood. Darts bounced off the plywood and some of the ice blocks were chipped.

"Three darts for thirty cenz, four for forty, six for fifty," a man called out at the front of the booth. "Stick two blocks and get a small prize!"

"Want to try?" Phillip asked.

She hesitated for a moment, but then nodded.

Phillip fished his wallet out of his back pocket. "I'll take six," he called as he dropped the money onto the counter.

The man smiled as he dropped the money into a pouch and produced six darts.

She frowned when the first dart burrowed itself into the plywood next to a block of ice.

"Almost got it, Missy," the man called out.

The second dart landed in the corner of one of the blocks and she turned to grin at Phillip.

When the last of her darts landed in another chunk of ice, everyone at the booth cheered.

"And the lady wins big," the man inside the booth called out as he pulled a giant teddy bear off the side wall of his booth.

"Five out of six, I've only ever gotten four," Phillip congratulated her. "I think this calls for a celebratory dance," he suggested.

"I haven't been dancing in a while," she agreed.

"Would you hold that for us?" Phillip asked, looking from the bear to the man in the booth.

The man subtly tapped the pouch of money and his belt, and Phillip nodded in agreement. A dance or two was worth a few more cenz.

.-.-.-.-.

His coat was draped over one of the fences surrounding the dance floor. She laughed as the tune changed from a waltz to something with a faster tempo.

She was sure her hair wasn't going to hold up against all the movement, but she didn't care.

Phillip laughed with her as she spun back to him. "Mother wouldn't approve," she told him.

"And that's why I wasn't her choice," he said nodding over to where Giolio stood with his sister, both of them giving the dance floor disapproving looks. He turned them around so she could see.

"And why I'm glad I went with Father's choice," she added just as the music faded to a stop.

A man climbed up onto the stage where the little orchestra had set up and whispered into the conductor's ear. The conductor nodded, and the man turned around to face the dance floor.

"It's time for the sculptors to go take their places at their assigned ice blocks. Alchemists will find theirs on the side closest to the games, while those working by hand may go back to make their finishing touches."

Phillip plucked his coat from the fence and hung it from, dug through the pockets for his gauntlets, and then hung it on her shoulders again. "You'll have to wait for me to finish, are any of your friends here?"

She nodded, looking around to find Chris, but the woman had disappeared into the crowd.

"Phil!" someone called out behind them.

Phillip whirled around. "Lily, you made it."

"Mother and Father are here, too," she told him as she hugged him.

"Lily, this is Augustina Epstein. Augustina, my sister, Lily," he introduced.

"Pleasure to meet you," Lily chimed as she looked Augustina up and down. "Why don't you sit with us while Phil makes his sculpture," she suggested.

She looked around for Chris one last time before agreeing.

"Don't scare her away," Phillip ordered as he watched Lily lead his date away.

"Good luck," Augustina called over her shoulder. As she turned back around, a curl fell out of its place and bounced around her forehead.

Phillip stared in awe—the Armstrong Curl—if that wasn't a sign, he was blind. His pulse quickened, and he knew making a sculpture of her wouldn't be breaking tradition at all.

He grinned and slipped the gauntlets on his hands and he found the ice block with his name in front of it.

"Thought you weren't going to make it," Giolio greeted from his right.

"Sorry to disappoint," Phillip replied.

Giolio scowled at him and he grinned back. Giolio opened his mouth, but his remark was cut off by the crowd's applause as the man who'd interrupted the music made his way to the center of the ring of ice blocks.

"Welcome to the twentieth annual Ice Sculpting Festival. The contestants will have a half-hour to transmute and put their finishing touches on their ice blocks. When the clock strikes ten, we begin!" he announced.

Phillip turned and found Lily waving at him. He smiled when saw Augustina lost in conversation with his brother-in-law. Lily tapped her, and she turned around and joined in waving. His mother gave him a stern look and his father gave him a nod of approval. He looked back at Augustina and memorized the lines of her face, his smile stretching even further across his face when her curl bobbed as she laughed at something Lily said.

"Ten. Nine." the announcer shouted.

The crowd rose to their feet and joined in counting off the remaining seconds until ten.

"Begin!" the announcer roared.

Cloth flew to the ground as those sculpting by hand revealed the work they'd completed that morning. Color sparked through the air as alchemists got to work.

Pieces of ice shimmered as they fell away from the ice block as Phillip gave it a soft tap with his gauntlets.

People clapped and cheered, but he ignored the noise as he circled around his sculpture, touching down the gauntlets here and there where more detail was needed.

He stepped away from the sculpture and nodded in approval just as the announcer declared that a minute remained.

"Not an Armstrong?" Giolio stammered when he surveyed Phillip's work.

"It's about time for a new tradition," Phillip replied as he looked over at the small replica of Central's grand clock Giolio had made.

"She looks like she's going come to life. Good work, Phillip," a voice complimented, giving him an excuse to turn away from Giolio.

"Thank you, Mrs. Downey," he said as she moved on to Giolio's work with the rest of the judges.

"Adding silver in again, I see." Another judge pointed out, motioning to the hands of the clock.

"My trademark," Giolio piped up.

"But not ice," Mrs. Downey reminded him.

Phillip left Giolio there arguing with the judges and walked over to where Augustina stood in awe with his family.

"Why me?" she asked.

"You're quite inspiring."

Lily snorted. "I think I'm going to be sick," she muttered to her husband.

Their mother glared at her.

"Well done," his father praised.

"May I have all the artists back to their sculptures, please," the announcer called.

.-.-.-.-.

"Shall we have a celebratory dance?" he asked as Augustina and his family joined him.

"Tomorrow night," his mother agreed.

Phillip shook his head. "No, Mother. On the dance floor," he said impatiently as he held out his hand to Augustina.

His father laughed and took his mother's hand. "We'll join you."

.-.-.-.-.

He had already seen her home when he remembered the bear.

He heaved a sigh of relief when he spotted the man from the dart game taking his booth apart.

"Sir," he called to get his attention.

The man turned to him. "We're closed."

"You were holding a bear for me," Phillip reminded him.

"For the lady," he recalled. "She's got a good eye," he commented as he patted the pouch at his belt in reminder.

Phillip dug his wallet out and handed the man a few cenz.

"Good man. Here it is," the man said as he fished the bear out of a bag.

.-.-.-.-.

"Did you have a good time last night?" her father asked as she joined her parents for breakfast.

"Wonderful," she answered as she sat down.

"I heard Phillip was a little untraditional," her mother commented.

Augustina blushed.

"The sculpture is quite the spitting image," her father added as he handed her the morning's paper.

"He's a talented alchemist," she replied.

"Miss, a delivery," one of the maids interrupted.

Augustina looked from the paper to the bear and flowers the maid was holding.

Her father looked at her with a raised brow.

"He went back for it," Augustina mumbled to herself.

"What is that?" her mother demanded.

"I won it in a game and we forgot to go back and get it," she explained as the maid handed her the bear and a vase of red and white carnations. She quickly plucked a note from the arrangement.

"And?" he mother asked.

"He wants to take me on a picnic."


	9. Apple Pie

Set post-manga, no spoilers

Winry was more than surprised when she opened the door to find May Chang standing there with her little panda looking anxious where it sat on her shoulder.

"I heard Alphonse is being taken care of here," May said before Winry could ask.

Winry nodded.

"Emperor Ling sent me to see that he makes a speedy recovery so he can visit Xing," she explained (a sour look on her face at her first words), holding out a roll of parchment to Winry.

"We have an extra room if you want to stay here," Winry offered as she broke the seal on the paper.

"Only if I wouldn't be intruding," she replied.

"Ed might not be happy, but he doesn't have a say in the matter," Winry said more to herself than the May.

Xaoi May growled at the mention of Ed.

.-.-.-.-.

May peeked in Al's room as Winry gave her a tour of the second floor. From her quick glance, she could already tell he was looking much better than when he'd emerged from the gate. His cheeks weren't sucked in and his face had color to it.

"He went for a long walk today. It must have tired him out," Winry said from behind May.

May quietly closed his bedroom door and followed Winry to the kitchen. A pie sat on the counter, cooling.

"Did you make that?" she asked.

Winry nodded. "Al really likes apple pie, but I have to watch it to make sure Ed doesn't sneak it," she explained.

"Will you teach me?"

Winry grinned. "I think I have just enough apples for one more."

.-.-.-.-.

Winry sighed as she surveyed the mess that May left in her wake.

Cinnamon and sugar seemed to dust every single surface of the kitchen, apples peels littered the floor around the trashcan, and smudges of dough stuck to the countertops.

May closed the oven door and turned around. "What's next?" May asked.

"Next, we clean," Winry announced, grabbing the broom from its spot in the corner.

May gave the broom an unsure glance. Sure, she'd seen one before, but the only time she'd used one was when a skirmish with one of her younger siblings had made it to the palace's kitchen.

Winry propped the broom back up against the wall. "Actually, we'll start with the counters first."

May nodded and eagerly grabbed the dishtowel Winry was reaching for.

.-.-.-.-.

Al woke to the sound of Ed's voice echoing in his ears. He squeezed his eyelids tight together, wondering if Ed was ever haunted by the same nightmares and how his brother had been able to shake them from his head.

When he opened his eyes, Ed burst into his room.

"Brother?" Al barely managed to get the word out before Ed was at his side.

"Whatever you do, don't eat it," Ed hissed in an urgent whisper.

"Edward!" A growl from the hall.

Al sat up in bed, barely able to get a glimpse of Winry before he spotted the wrench flying across the room.

Ed rubbed his head and turned to snap at Winry.

The momentary distraction gave Winry just enough time to get in front of him and shove him out of the room.

"Don't, it's got to be poisoned or something," Ed cautioned as he struggled against the mechanic.

Al gave him a bewildered look, utterly clueless about Ed's warnings.

"Don't listen to him," Winry reassured Al, giving him a smile once she managed to get Ed into the hallway. "You've got a visitor," she half-grunted, half-shouted to make herself heard over Ed's loud complaints.

Al rolled his eyes as the pair disappeared from sight. He was sure whatever was going on would lead to more of the flirtation that both of them denied existed when it was brought up.

He yawned as he smoothed the blankets his bed. He hadn't expected his early morning walk to make his so tired. His eyelids drooped as he waited for his visitor.

"Alphonse?"

He opened his eyes and straightened up.

"Sorry, they said you were awake," she apologized, standing just inside the doorway.

He smiled. "No, it's okay," he waved off her apology and gestured for her to come in.

May ducked her head and hurried into the room.

Al's gaze flickered to the little panda resting on her shoulder and then to the plate of pie she held in her hands. Seeing her eyes search the nightstand next to his bed, he stacked the books littered across its top into a neat pile. "There isn't much to do when everyone's set on keeping me in bed," he apologized as she set down the plate at the edge of the nightstand closest to him.

Al watched as Xiao May ran down her arm and inspected the book titles just as intently as May.

May straightened when she felt Al's eyes on her. "Winry taught me how to make apple pie. She said you like it," she explained, pushing the plate of pie closer to him.

He nodded and picked up the plate.

"I've never really cooked before," she blurted out nervously.

He smiled over at her as he brought a forkful up to his mouth.

For a moment, it was delicious, but then all he could taste was the burnt crust.

"It's good," he told her, convincing himself that he was only half-lying, because it would have been good if hadn't been burnt.

"Really?" she asked eagerly as he brought another bit to his mouth.

"Mhm, delicious," he reassured her, wondering if she'd heard Ed's opinion.

She grinned, and he decided seeing her smile like that was worth suffering through burnt pie without complaint.


End file.
